Life for the past five days has been a steady but unadventurous mix of hotel indolence, insomniac exhaustion, and slogging on the Schlumburger base in the stifling heat.
We got onshore on Tuesday, in good spirits. The past 24 hours had been gruelling, as we'd rigged down and packed away our stuff at the end of the job, but with the job successful and a beer immediately in hand upon arrival at the hotel, life under the warm sun seemed good. The goodness continued as our kit didn't return to base for days, meaning we had the time to ourselves to laze by the pool, sip gin, and burn ourselves silly. I avoided the worst ravages of the sun, but my colleagues, "The Smiler" and "Mr Vinegar", were less careful and turned a marvellous shade of luminescent red. Mr Vinegar especially excelled in his redness, an gave a great impression of a panda due to having kept his sunglasses on.
It took a downturn from then on, alas. During these two days, free of worries, filled with the sun's warmth and the peace of our hotel on a hill, life had been sedate and almost resembled a holiday. To perk things up, about ten Irish girls appeared, and wore their bikinis by the poolside. This kind of thing is what I joined my company for. But all good things must come to an end, and in a cruel double whammy, our kit finally arrived from the rig onto the base, and joining the many Irish girls were a mass of loutish Irish boys and lots of Irish old people. In one fell swoop, indolence was replaced by duty - and the sunloungers were hogged by the Irish from early morning.
That cruel day was Friday, also the day The Smiler and Mr Vinegar - who had been excellent company - escaped on a flight home. Replacing them was a new start, a youth with boyband good looks, hence who'll be referred to simply as "Boyband".
Since Boyband's arrival, there has been no relaxing by the pool and life has turned tough. Trying to sort out two sets of equipment in a very hot Schlumberger base, and dealing with a load of tricky logistics involving six different companies. This is our first time in Trinidad, so everything is setting a precedent. Progress is in small bursts, but is at least moving in the right direction.
I wish the Irish would leave though. Dominating the pool, they lack the spark that I've known in some of the lovely Irish fate has thrown me with in the past. They're here for a wedding, which took place last night and was a terrible affair. Much of the reception seemed decidely subdued, but after I'd retired to my room the volume was pumped up with some rather inappropriate ragga-style music I'm sure wasn't appreciated by the grandmothers of the party. It took a downhill turn as Abba medleys were introduced, followed by rapid fire medleys of the worst songs ever written. This was accompanied by enthusiastic "whoop whoops" of the loutish Irish boys. I would have thought an Irish wedding would have some charm, but the only nod to Irishness was some ludicrous pumped-up phoney Irish trance tune - which elicted some especially boisterous whooping from the "lads". There was no charm.
God knows when the damn Irish will leave, but I'm hoping that my exit will be some time this week. If events tomorrow can fall into place well, then a flight back to Aberdeen will be forthcoming. Whoop whoop!